


Tales from the Silk Road

by AnnaFan



Series: The Silk Road [7]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, OC from Hazard Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: A collection of one-shots/short pieces about characters from the Silk Road series.  (1) Siliveth and Úron  (2) Chang and LaerwenThe first piece is a present for Thanwen, who suggested this outcome to Siliveth's dalliances at Cormallen.
Relationships: Original Character/ Original Character
Series: The Silk Road [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/566350
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Paterfamilias

**1\. Paterfamilias**

Úron broke the seal and unfolded the letter within.

_My dear boy,_

_I realise you have been very busy with matters pertaining to the coronation, and subsequent royal wedding, but you really must head post haste to Lossarnach. Your betrothed seems to have taken herself there, and, unless I miss my guess, intends to rusticate for a period of approximately nine months, or perhaps rather less (it is after all some 6 weeks since the festivities at Cormallen). Since you mentioned in passing that you would not be averse to starting a family sooner rather than later, I suggest you go and prevent the silly girl from being far too honourable for her own good._

_I'm sure I need not remind you to dispose of this letter after reading it._

_Yours most sincerely,_  
Ivriniel of Dol Amroth.

  
~o~O~o~

Lady Siliveth sat in the parlour, cautiously nibbling ginger biscuits and sipping camomile tea. Little and often seemed to be the trick. She felt caught between a rock and hard place; if she ate, she felt sick, if she didn't she felt faint. And whatever she did, she felt tired, tired beyond all imagining. Really, this whole business was most unpleasant. As she raised the cup to her lips once more, she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter.”

Her cousin's butler arrived, bearing a silver tray with a visiting card upon it.

“Lord Úron to see you,” he announced. “Should I show him in?”

Siliveth's stomach gave a lurch at this unexpected news, but she kept an admirably straight face. “Yes, do show him straight up, Faeron.” 

It was a matter of only moments before she heard Úron's familiar limping step in the passage outside, then the butler ushered him into the room.

“Oh, my dear friend,” said Úron, stepping over to the armchair and kneeling on the floor beside Siliveth. He took both her hands in his. “Didn't I tell you that this was an entirely acceptable outcome? I would be delighted to welcome our child into the world – for our child is what the baby will be, both legally and in terms of how I treat him. There really is no need for you to hide yourself away.”

Siliveth sighed. “And didn't I saw that the problem was that the child was as likely to be born with bright golden hair as with dark raven hair?”

Uron gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Really, my dear, you worry far too much about these minor details. I have only just, this last five minutes or so, recollected that one of my many grandparents – I always find it useful to have a flexible number of grandparents, as circumstances dictate – hailed from Anorien and, in common with many people from that region, had Rohirric blood. And as we know, in noble families, it is not unusual to get unexpected throw-backs to earlier generations.”

Siliveth raised a delicately plucked brow. “You think people will believe that ridiculous farrago?”

“Of course not,” said Úron with an amiable laugh. “But it's not about what people believe, it's about what the strictures of proper behaviour dictate that they have to assent to. If I marry you – which I will, if you still wish to have me – and publicly acknowledge the child, and have the King and Steward behind me, which I have no doubt I will, then no-one will question his parentage to our faces.”

“And behind our backs,” said Siliveth, suddenly aware that she was having to suppress an urge to sniff most unbecomingly. Really, her current condition seemed to be playing havoc with her composure.

Úron patted her hand once more. “And who, under Elbereth's firmament, gives a damn what people say behind their backs. That way, I assure you, madness lies.”

“But will anyone think it in the slightest bit plausible?”

Again, Úron smiled. “Well, I did make a point of kissing the inside of your wrist. In public. In front of your former husband. When he was still your husband. Precisely in order to annoy him.”

“But you did that because he was being horrid to Princess Lothíriel.”

“Yes, but the onlookers didn't know that was why I did it. For all they knew, I may have been harbouring an overwhelming passion for you.” Seeing Siliveth's face fall slightly at this, he added, “And I may assure you that were it not for my rather marked preferences in other directions, there is no woman for whom I would prefer to harbour an overwhelming passion.”

Siliveth brightened a bit, and, encouraged, Úron said, “For you are beautiful, amusing, always au fait with the latest society on dits, and,” (here he gave a positively roguish look) “If the attentions of Prince Amrothos and Lord Éothain are to be trusted – and their extensive reputations rather suggest they should be – you are in addition a dashed seductive young woman.”

Siliveth definitely perked up; she picked up a folded fan and tapped him lightly on the wrist. “Fie, sir, you will make my poor head swell!”

~o~O~o~

The wedding had been a quiet affair, but very, very select. Officiated by Lord Hurin of the Keys, in the presence of the King and Queen, and the Steward and his new wife (blossoming perhaps more obviously than was quite proper given how recently a new wife she was, but Úron had reflected that it might quite useful if she were to set a fashion in this respect). Marital respectability suitably established, they had settled into a comfortable town house in one of the fashionable districts of the inner circles of Minas Tirith.

Several months had passed in comfortable and companionable domesticity. Úron (as he had so correctly pointed out) might not have been what her maidenly dreams had conjured as a husband, but Siliveth found him a vast improvement on her previous husband. And he did indeed live up to his promise to be a faithful and dear friend to her. Furthermore, she found herself the wife of a coming man – he had been appointed to a minor magistracy, continued as Prince Faramir's aide de camp, and even the King was said to listen to Uron's advice. (Her former husband, meanwhile, having made the mistake of publicly insulting the young Princess of Dol Amroth and soon-to-be Queen of Rohan, had found himself with a large part of Gondor's standing army billeted on his estates, and a smaller part, under his command, dispatched to the Sea of Rhun to conduct a rather ill-starred military campaign. All in all, Siliveth felt, a most satisfactory outcome.)

Finally, the day had come when she had woken with sharp pains, and had rung for her maid before dawn. Úron had dispatched a servant to fetch a midwife from the Houses of Healing, and had sat holding Siliveth's hand, dabbing her brow with a handkerchief as the pains took her, and chattering to her to distract her between times. Dame Ioreth and her young assistant had arrived just as the sun crept round onto the window. The good dame had shooed Úron away, telling him firmly that this was women's business. Úron thus found himself anxiously kicking his heels as he waited for news.

And now, at last, after some anxious hours pacing round and round his study, Dame Ioreth's assistant came to fetch him.

“My lord, you are the father of twin boys.”

“Twin boys?” Úron's face broke into a smile of delight. “Is my wife able to receive my visit? Or does she need more time to rest?”

“Dame Ioreth says her Ladyship has done very well, and she would like to see you and introduce you to your sons.”

Beaming, Úron followed her along the passageway, across the hall, and up the stairs to his wife's bedchamber. She sat, reclining on pillows, pink and tired looking, but managed a wan smile as Úron approached.

“My dear, I will not lie, that was most unpleasant.”

Úron surveyed the two tightly swaddled babies lying either side of her. “But two at once. The heir and the spare. What a clever girl you are! How splendidly efficient. No reason why you should have to go through this again… unless of course you wish to. May I?” He gestured towards the babies.

“By all means.” Úron sat on the bed by her knees and reached out. Very gently he stroked first one, then the other's downy cheeks. 

“They are quite, quite marvellous.” And indeed the babies were – slightly red, and sticky looking. He assessed them a bit more closely. Both had tufts of hair. And, although still wet, he thought he could just about discern – yes, one had dark hair, the other's was an unmistakable blond. Splendidly convenient. No chance of mixing the two of them up.

~o~O~o~

Having shown the wet nurse to her new charges, Ioreth and her assistant made their weary way back to the Houses of Healing.

“My goodness,” the assistant said, conversationally. “I've seen such things in cats before, but never with a woman. One blond, one dark haired. Who'd have thought it?”

Ioreth gave her a sharp look, and spoke in a rather tart tone of voice. “Now lass, there's one thing you should learn early on as a healer, and that's to know when to bide your peace. I know I've got a reputation for letting my tongue run away with me, and I dare say I do prattle on at times. But only about inconsequential nonsense. I'd never say anything that was private to a patient to anyone else, and I strongly suggest you learn to do the same, and pretty sharpish.”

The younger woman looked suitably subdued and the pair lapsed into an awkward silence. As they trudged up the narrow street, Ioreth thought to herself that, for all it shouldn't really be voiced aloud, the girl was right. It was quite remarkable. Indeed, who would have thought it?

~o~O~o~

_AN: This outcome is perfectly possible, if the woman produces two eggs at slightly different times, and there are documented cases of it taking place. It is indeed (as Ioreth's assistant notes) quite common in domestic cats._


	2. Lads' Night Out

_Lads’ Night Out_

~o~O~o~

_For Sian, as a little effort to bring some cheer._

~o~O~o~

Úron took off his damp cloak and set it over the back of the chair opposite Faramir. The latter raised his eyebrows in surprise – Úron’s attire was positively subfusc compared to his normal garb.

“Well, I’m hardly going to deliberately ruffle feathers in one of the most renowned – or should that be infamous – soldiers’ drinking holes in the outer circles, am I?” Úron said with a chuckle. 

Faramir waved to the barmaid and signalled for a couple of tankards of ale. He glanced around – yes, it was indeed filled with soldiers, including a more than a few of his own company. But there was an unspoken rule here – you could fall into conversation at the actual bar, but where men were gathered round a table you didn’t intrude unless you were invited. So his Rangers were studiously ignoring him, or at least pretending to (barring the inevitable surreptitious glances from time to time).

The ale arrived and both men took deep drafts of their drinks.

“So,” Faramir began. “I’ve recused myself from Lady Siliveth’s annulment hearing, obviously. Lord Hurin will hear it instead.”

“Will it go through?” Úron asked. 

Faramir thought he heard a slight note of uncertainty. He smiled reassuringly. “It should be a formality. Bronaer threatened to kick off, of course, and drag her name through the mud – but Amrothos reminded him that he’d also attempted to drag his sister’s name through the mud, and that he would be more than delighted to call him out over that unless he changed his tune. And since Amrothos is a very good swordsman (and Éomer arguably even better), Bronaer backed down. However angry the man is that one of his prized possessions has escaped his clutches (for I think that is how he thinks of it) he’s not a suicidal fool.”

“I feel slightly bad that I cannot call him out myself. But you see, my leg’s crocked.”

“I read the dispatches from Pelennor. Crocked in pursuit of extreme bravery which protected your company’s retreat,” Faramir replied.

“More like a bloody idiot in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the only thing he could think of to stay alive during an epic shit-show.” 

“That’s as neat a summary as one could wish for of most soldiering,” the Steward said.

Úron took a sip of beer. “I know it sounds strange coming from a fop like me, but I miss soldiering. Not just the camaraderie, but the actual sword play, and that buzz of excitement.”

“I on the other hand do not,” Faramir said, dryly. “I’m sure I shall have to go back to it of necessity, for there are nests of orcs all over Ithilien, and I’m not sure how long the peace with the Southrons and Easterlings will last. But if I never have to lift a sword in earnest again, I shall be most content. Of course, my lady intends to keep me on my toes sparring with practice swords.” He gave a broad smile, which Úron met with one of his own.

“It’s good to see you look a little more light-hearted. You’ve been like a succession of wet Mondays since she went back to Rohan.”

Faramir took another draft of ale. “Have I been that bad?”

“Worse.” Úron paused for a moment as if assessing how far to go, then seemingly decided that the only possible answer was _all the way_. “There was me thinking that the mood in your study would be improved when I didn’t have to run the daily gauntlet of the pair of you undressing one another with your eyes, but honestly, your misery has been even more irritating.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow. “Funny. The dispatches didn’t mention that you could be a right insubordinate bastard.”

“Well, you know the army. Never commit the important stuff to paper. Like a propensity for insubordination. Better to hide the information and seamlessly move the problem case on to a new position with sublimely, unwittingly ignorant recipient. In this case, to a position as the Steward’s aide de camp. With you as the happy recipient.”

Faramir gave a quiet snort of laughter. Then launched into a counter-attack.

“You served under my brother briefly at the start of your career, didn’t you? Osgiliath. Before we lost it to the enemy.”

Úron had enough experience of Faramir by this stage to know that random changes of direction in the conversation were usually nowhere near as random as they seemed. He decided a direct challenge was the best tactic.

“And that non-sequitur is going where, precisely?”

“My brother’s 2IC. What was his name again? Hmm. Toran wasn’t it?”

Úron felt himself flush, and uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar for the gloom in the tavern. Faramir, meanwhile, began to warm to his subject.

“I seem to remember Boromir mentioning a certain amount of… tension in the air. He described it as ‘a couple of extra logs on the fire every time they’re in the mess together.’ Said that when the two of you were in the company office the tension was nigh-on unbearable. So where I’m going is: pot… kettle… black.” 

Faramir lounged back in his chair and took another swig of ale before continuing. “Boromir used to take refuge in examining the bridge foundations for cracks when it got too much. Much to the annoyance of his chief engineer, who said he’d started seeing things that weren’t there.” (Faramir left out the detail that Boromir had taken great delight in adding _“He said if I kept seeing stuff that wasn’t there I’d end up just like you, little brother._ )

“Well…” Úron drawled. “I’d be careful about opening up lines of conversation where you might end up getting more detail than you bargained for. Toran was a very fine soldier. And… since you raise the subject. Strikingly handsome, remarkably agile and most splendidly enthusiastic. Quite an education for a young officer fresh out of training, I can assure you. I do so love opportunities for gaining an education.”

Faramir shook his head ruefully, a tight smile playing about his lips, as if to concede that he had indeed been outflanked by this surfeit of intelligence.

“So,” Úron continued. “Your lady’s brother. How did he take the news of the engagement?”

Faramir took another drink. _Like two bloody bantams, all fluffed up feathers, squaring up to one another_ had been Éowyn’s description, but clearly this was not how he was going to retell events to Úron.

“I told him that I hoped he would not hold it against me that I had not followed the dictates of protocol in asking him for his sister’s hand, but given her wonderfully independent streak and her status as war hero, it hardly seemed fitting in this particular case, and I was sure he would understand. He graciously conceded the point.”

Faramir’s wordy description caught Úron mid mouthful, and he only just managed to turn his head in time to splutter beer over the flagstones rather than the table. He fished a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his lips.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.”

Faramir waved a hand nonchalantly and took a sip from his own tankard.

“Of course,” Úron said, eyeing the steward and wondering if he could manage equally impeccable timing, “That’s not quite what the word was in the servants’ hall.”

Faramir set his tankard down with an audible clatter, eyes narrowing.

“Nor, for that matter, how the Lady Éowyn reported it to me later.”

Faramir’s face took on a somewhat tight expression. Úron wondered whether it was entirely safe to goad him. But hell, “safe” wasn’t how he’d chosen to live his life so far, and this was dashed amusing.

“She said the king of Rohan got cross at the thought that you’d breached protocol by not asking him, you got cross because you felt he’d impugned your lady’s honour by suggesting that she wasn’t the final arbiter of her own fate, he got cross at the mention of her honour lest you had importuned her, you got cross at the suggestion that he had questioned your lady’s honour, and at this point (so she told me) she took a fit of uncontrollable giggles both at the mention of importuning (for reasons which somewhat escape me, she appears to find this word hilarious) and also at the fact that both of you were so intent on defending a mythical and now non-existent honour which she had gleefully and gloriously cast away at the first opportunity.”

For a moment Faramir looked like he might explode, and Úron wondered if he had pushed things too far. Then his shoulders dropped and he burst out laughing. When he finally managed to stop laughing, he said, “That is indeed a fairly accurate summary of how the meeting actually unfolded. Though I must say I was relieved she would not tell her brother why she was laughing so much… For one terrible instant I thought she was about to blurt out just what we’d been up to. I on the other hand think the less he knows about the precise details of our domestic arrangements, the better.

“Mind you, the notion of ‘honour’ is one of the few things my lady and I disagree on. She mistakenly believes herself to have cast her honour aside – albeit willingly. I on the other hand think that she retains every bit as much honour as she ever had; I see it as residing in her bravery, honesty and courage in doing what is right. She is true as steel and thus one of the most honourable people I have ever known. I believe it matters not one whit to her honour that we may have been… beforehand in anticipating certain activities more normally left to the wedding night. I shall always be true to her, I know she will always be true to me, and beyond that, it does not matter.”

Úron shook his head. “You know, your brother was right about you. Sometimes you talk too damn much, and you definitely think too damn much. She’s happy, you’re happy – disgustingly so, in fact. You’re both going to be married soon, and you managed to convey this to her brother without him running you through – that’s really all that matters. And on that note – can I get you another tankard of ale?”

~o~O~o~

_With thanks to Sian, for supplying details of Úron's backstory in a hilarious review to one of the chapters of The Epistles. And apologies to Altariel for stealing one of her lines about being an insubordinate bastard._


End file.
